What Only Time Can Know
by thenyxie
Summary: MalZoe. 100 standalone scenes that capture the moments that bind them together, from the War, to Miranda and beyond, the past and the possible future.
1. Freefall

Author's Notes: Written for the 100 Situations LiveJournal Challenge. Based on 100 prompts, this series will capture 100 scenes from Mal and Zoë's life, showing what only time can know; the ties that bind and why they will never sever, from pre-Firefly series to post-Serenity, the past and the possible future. These stories are posted in the order they were written—for now. Eventually (presuming I finish) they will be ordered chronologically.

**What Only Time Can Know  
**Prompt #002 – Back Alley

**Freefall**

-----

For a split second, he had no idea how he ended up face-down kissing concrete with the texture of grit and the taste of copper in his mouth—-and then he heard the tight click of a pistol cocking, the labored breathing of a man whose nose had just seen the last of its symmetrical days, and his mouth curled in a tight smile, remembering.

Tiny rocks cut into the palms of his hands as he pushed himself up, struggling to his knees before cold steel met the back of his neck. The smell of oil and gunpowder filled him, were as life itself, the length of his history written with them upon pages of blood and the bodies of the dead. Oil, gunpowder, blood, death; he'd gladly surrendered to their burden, had become as their skin, an object moved through their will. An object in motion that could only be stilled by the same.

The space of a breath drawn, a moment suspended in time where he understood perfectly the series of events that led him here. The faces of the dead filed by in quick procession, marching in formation to the tune of a band who'd long since abandoned their instruments. Starvation, dehydration, shrapnel, bullet wounds; none of them had seen fit to do more than mess him about. None of them had seen fit to take him from this cold, harsh, universe. Why not like this? On this day of all days? After all, this was the day his life had actually ended, all be that it was one year after the fact.

Let it be this, then.

There was no sound save the crinkle of brown leather as he lifted his hands, lacing them atop his head. Without ceremony, without pretense, he tilted his head back into the muzzle, let slip his will, and breathed deep his last.

And then the weight of metal was suddenly lifted from his skin in perfect synchronicity with the muffled crunch of shattered bone. A thump as the gun-holder hit the ground, and then another distinct thunk of wood hitting bone with incredible force, followed by another bodily thump.

"Sir?"

"I was fine," he answered, the words sounding too fast, too false, even to his own ears.

"Weren't looking too fine."

He swayed on his knees, the world tilting into a sideways spin that sent his head and stomach reeling, and decided that introducing his beer glass to Curly's nose might just've been piece of wisdom for more reasons than one. And that Curly putting a bullet in his brainpan would've been a right piece of mercy.

Cool, dark hands slid against his, pulled him to his feet despite his protests. Once on his feet, he discovered they weren't exactly playing by any kind of rules he understood anymore, and he stumbled a bit before Zoe caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Muscles like steel beneath silk as they pulled him close, bearing his weight as she helped him move down the alley.

"Where'd you go?" he slurred.

"To the bathroom." Zoe turned her head, looking at him with a perfect mixture of disgust, disbelief and amusement that only Zoe could have conjured. "Sir," she added with an emphasis that left him feeling properly chagrined.

"Don't do that again," he ordered, weaving so hard she nearly lost her grip on him.

"Yes sir." Dutiful and completely perfunctory.

"I mean it," he said, using his serious voice. "I... I almost let 'im..." He staggered over the words as badly as he did over his feet, but Zoe held him steady—-just like she always did.

"I know." The reply was quiet, filled with deadly calm. Then she turned her head toward him again with a predatory gleam in her eyes that made him think she might like to kill him herself.

"Don't you ever. Ever. You understand me?"

"You givin' me orders now?" His words were slow, too slurred, an all together pitiful attempt at command.

"Yes sir." Nothing perfunctory about her reply that time, all bright tones and false acquiescence that made clear she was lethally serious.

There was a long pause, the heat of her skin warming him through his coat as they walked.

"Don't know that I can do this without you," she finally said, voice low.

"Hell. Didn't even make it two minutes without you." He tried to nod back toward the bar to emphasize his meaning, but his neck went slack and his head lolled against hers, instead.

"We'll get through." His own words shot back at him. And that wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was the one who was supposed to give strength, say the happy words and make it all right. The one that others listened to, rallied around.

"Not today," she answered.

Had he said all that out loud? Must have.

He tried to nod in response, but everything was moving too slow, his limbs sluggish and forgetful. Then the world upended in one last violent spin that left him rushing down a black hole inside his mind, and he finally succumbed as darkness rose up to swallow him.

Zoe grimaced as he went limp, catching him, bearing him up gently beneath her arm. She looked down at his face, which should have, by all rights, been serene and peaceful what with his eyes closed.

It never was.

"Happy U-Day, sir."


	2. Gone

**What Only Time Can Know  
**Prompt: #005 - Son

**Gone**

-----

The light goes out of Jonesy's eyes, and Mal turns away, crouching down against the sandbag wall, sighing as he lets his head fall back.

Twelve days. Twelve days since the day his world came crashing down and the unthinkable had come calling with hundreds of tall ships bearing colors that he'd sworn to see burn. Twelve days and they were still dying, still fighting a war that had already been lost.

He knows it's just a matter of time. The treaty will be signed, Alliance med ships will arrive, smooth and gleaming, giant war ships close behind, and they'll have no choice but to finally lay down arms or die. They'll go home, and all of this will put down in the pages of history, memory of a victory for those who write it, devoid of individual faces and the individual belief that one has a right to live as one chooses.

They'll go home.

He's guesses he's still got one thing to live for.

Zoë walks from between walls of sandbags, her silhouette backlit, limned in the orange glow of campfire. Frame taut and held together by tension wires, but there's no warning of danger in her gait. In fact, there's a shuffle in her step, a reluctance he's never seen in her, and she hesitates, hovering on the verge of turning away.

"Sir... you need..."

She trails, standing there for a long moment in silence. Across camp, something falls over with a loud clang and a single startled cry rings out.

"What is it, Zoë?"

Her eyes survey him one last time with something he doesn't think he's ever seen in them before, and at last she crouches down beside him, pressing something into his hand. Her palms are slick with sweat, and he can feel her tremble as her skin meets his for a brief instant. Formal thing, cream colored paper, crisp and firmly pressed and all too familiar, and he hates it on sight, hates the feel of it, cool and sterile against his skin.

The letters are printed, neat and precise ink that some bureaucrat dictated beneath dead light in a gray, immaculate room that had never known joy, or laughter, or the true pain of loss. The words it speaks are heartless, vapid as the place they'd been birthed from, and he can scarcely comprehend their message.

_We regret to inform you—_

"But that... this..." he lets the words drop away, unfinished, not even realizing that he had been speaking.

The letter falls from his hand, hot breeze catching it up and whipping it out across the battlefield. Zoë sits, saying nothing, and now she does look at him. He can feel her eyes burning into him, can smell the thick, metallic scent of blood in the air, taste gritty gunpowder and dust his mouth. He can feel the blood in his veins, the wind across his skin, every ache, every pain, every nerve and sensation standing out in brilliant, singular detail.

_Shadow—_

_We regret to inform you—_

A tight starburst of pain contracts and explodes inside his chest, and he lifts his hand to touch it, expecting to feel warm wetness, see blood staining his hands black. But in the firelight his hands are clean, and soldiers shuffle by in brown coats, eating rotten rice and exchanging war stories and none of this is real, it can't be real, because if it were real no one would be walking around eating rice and trading tales and dropping things and—

Zoë shifts and he meets her eyes across the darkness, and that's when he knows, knows for sure. Color drains out of the world and everything inside him turns to ash, hollowed out and empty, devoid of meaning. The pain inside him is an object within an object that rests upon an object that spins, and his relation to it all is forgotten, a puzzle his numb mind cannot begin to piece together. For an instant, everything that ever was and has yet to be has ceased to have meaning, and he forsakes it gladly, lets it all fall away into shapes and colors and sounds that have no context.

Zoë speaks somewhere far beyond him, a faint, melodic noise. But all he can hear, all he can see, all he can imagine and breathe and remember are two syllables that used to mean everything.

He lifts his hand to his chest again, sliding it between brown and red.

Wrinkled yellow paper, folded and creased with months of wear, bearing words from a callused hand that will never write again. His fingers brush against it, a wisp of memory across his bitter heart, crinkled edges worn thin and clear. The words twist like fire in his memory, every letter, every symbol, every curve of flowing script, and he can hear her voice speaking them, clear as the church bells that used to ring out in town.

_"Dear Son..."_


	3. Carnival

**What Only Time Can Know**

Prompt 058: Summer

**Carnival**

**-----**

It had been three years since Captain Alleyne had come to visit Shadow, and Mal was out to the field before the ship even landed, his hair whipping in the wind generated by the engines.

She'd gotten tall—almost as tall as him—and her body curved in ways that made him think of lush hills and secret forests. Gone were the braids he had loved to tug on when they'd chased each other through his mother's cornfields. Her hair blew free in the mild summer breeze; long curls that made him want to tangle his fingers in it and tug, tease in an entirely different way. Her eyes were still the same though, dark brown and full of life, deep as the ocean and sparkling like sunlight dancing over the waves.

"Hey there, farm boy," she said, catching him up in her arms and hugging him tight. His arms came up awkwardly, intensely aware of her softness pressed against him, the scent of her that filled him. He should have been prepared for this, he thought. After all, he was sixteen and she wasn't far behind. But somehow it hadn't occurred to him that she would have grown up, too.

She released him and stepped back a pace, slipped her hand in his and began to pull. "Come on. Daddy says the carnival's in town."

"But, I can't… I mean I don't," Mal trailed, confused and overwhelmed by all his senses.

"Zoë?" The sound of thudding footsteps against the dock accompanied a deep, stern voice. "Where you draggin' that poor boy off to?"

"The carnival, sir," Mal answered, a little nervous beneath Captain Alleyne's penetrating stare.

"Oh really?" he asked, with an amused sideways glance toward his daughter. "Well, you better be takin' this with you, then." The Captain dropped some coins into Mal's confused hands, and Mal looked up, dumbfounded and grateful.

And then his face fell again. "Thank you, sir," he said, beginning to hand the money back. "But I can't. I have chores, and my Momma—"

"Get on with you, now," the Captain said, jerking his head in the direction of town. "I'll deal with your Momma, son."

"But—"

"Get."

It was coming up on dusk when they hit the fair. The air smelled of roasted peanuts and confectionary dreams, and lights twinkled all around them, a dazzling rainbow of colors against the darkening sky. Carnival barkers shouted in the distance, extolling the virtues of bearded women and spider ladies, and from all around came the sounds of bells ringing, balloons popping, BB guns firing, and the laughter, squeals and screams of children as they whizzed by on dizzying rides at breathtaking speed.

Mal stood and stared up at the gigantic wheel that cut a dark silhouette across the sky, its girders and beams glowing with a million tiny white lights. The Turning Wheel, they called it, and all the girls in town thought it was the shiniest thing they'd ever laid eyes on. He'd never had much occasion to ride in one since the girls never paid him any mind, and what happened at the apex of its turn was a mystery to him, something the older boys whispered about.

"Zoë?" He licked his lips, gathered his courage. "You wanna—"

But she was grabbing his hand, looking the other way. "Look. They got a shootin' range over there!"

Now that was more his style. He couldn't suppress a grin as he let himself be pulled along.

Mal let loose a low whistle as Zoë unloaded on a huge grizzly bear, its muzzle twisted and frozen forever in a terrifying snarl as it loomed over—of all things—a couch in the set in the middle of a parody of somebody's living room. The girl was good. At least three of her shots got the thing square in the target on its chest. Good, but not quite good enough to win.

"Here," she said, handing the gun to him. "Your turn."

He aimed for the owl posed in mid-flight that swooped up and down on fishing wire from the fireplace mantle, and hit it five times, square on the target.

"Damned fine shootin', son," said the carney behind the counter as he walked over. He motioned to the wall on his left. "Pick out one for your girl."

"She, um," Mal stuttered, blushing. "She's not, uh." He faltered, then gave up entirely and pointed. "That one."

"Interesting choice," the carney said, giving him a look. "You ever seen one of those before, son?"

"Nope," he answered truthfully. That's why he'd picked it.

It was a giraffe, the carney said. It smelled of mothballs and its impossibly long neck was bent at an odd angle, but Zoë laughed, clutching the stuffed animal to her chest, and her smile was like a thousand suns, sending light right down to his toes. She kissed his cheek, a whisper of warmth and the faint scent of cotton candy, and left him with a goofy grin and eyes that couldn't quite meet hers.

The evening passed in a dizzying blur of colors and laughter, and by the time they left, Mal felt full and satisfied, his belly aching a bit from all the food they'd eaten.

As they walked down the lane toward the farm, Zoë fell into step beside him, slipped her hand through his. Stuffed giraffe held in the crook of her other arm, she looked over and smiled at him. He smiled back, and they shuffled through the darkness in companionable silence.

Later, they sat in the barn loft, feet dirty and dangling in the empty air, staring up at the stars. The stuffed giraffe sat between them, its body askew upon the uneven surface of hay, and Zoë's fingers twined comfortably between his. Crickets chirped somewhere in the darkness below, and the night air was hot, heavy with the promise of rain.

"You're gonna be going soon," Mal said.

"You'll see me again," she said.

And he knew he would, trusted that he would, somehow. But it wouldn't ever be like this between them again. He knew that, too.

He looked over at her, wanting to explain what he felt in his heart, but even he didn't quite understand it, this sense of foreboding, this aching desperation to do _something_--

"Stop worryin' so gorramn much," Zoë said, and when his mouth fell open in shock to hear a lady speak that way, she leaned in and kissed him.

She tasted like the carnival, a whirl of exotic flavors and glimmering lights, and for a second, he didn't quite know what to do with his mouth. And then her tongue touched his, swirling, exploring gently, and he forgot to think, instinct bringing his arms up around her body, pulling her closer.

The giraffe squished out from between them until there was no space left between their bodies, and Mal felt like he was flying, like a kid on Christmas morning with a new toy and all he ever wanted to do was hold her, keep kissing her like this.

He fell into it, was swallowed by it, and the whole world was the wild scent of hay and the taste of sugar still clinging to her lips. He swept his tongue over the sweetness, stealing it from her mouth, kissing it away until he couldn't breathe, until he didn't know what else to do, and finally, he drew apart from her, staring in surprise and wonder.

She gave him a crooked grin and arched a dark brow at him. "Well. Ain't that somethin'?"

"I'll say," he muttered. He was breathless and he felt lost, the ache inside him not soothed by her kiss, but intensified. He didn't want her to go, hated that she had to leave again, just like he did every time, but this time, it was different. And he guessed all that must have shown plain as day on his face, because she smiled at him, gentle and warm, her very eyes a promise.

"You'll see me again."

She pulled the giraffe up into her lap and took his hand in hers again, scooting up next to him until their hips touched. And side by side in the magic of a summer's night, they sat and watched the moon rise over the fields, their hands and spirits speaking all the things they didn't know how to say.


End file.
